


Mr. December

by muchandquick



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: AU, Cats, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-20 08:08:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5998210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/muchandquick/pseuds/muchandquick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lardo works the camera, Shitty wrangles the cat, Jack poses for the charity calendar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mr. December

**Author's Note:**

  * For [QuickLikeLight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuickLikeLight/gifts).



> Here is my "Valentines, Please!" story for QuickLikeLight. 
> 
> Let's pretend that:  
> Lardo and Shitty attended Samwell, but hockey was not a part of their lives.  
> Jack never attended Samwell and was forced to go on his redemption arc at another college.
> 
> It's all made up and the points don't matter.

Shitty pulled up to the curb of Lardo's studio, set the emergency break, and readied himself.

“It's the last one,” he said to the slice of himself reflected in the rear-view window. “You're good enough, you're smart enough, and gosh-darnit, people like you.”

“Meow,” said a tiny voice from the back seat.

“Fuck yeah,” replied Shitty.

It was eight o'clock in the morning on a Saturday and Shitty found himself, once again, hauling carriers full of cats and kittens up three flights of stairs to find Lardo waiting at the door with a mug of coffee at the ready for him. “Mornin',” she said with a wide-mouthed yawn.

Shitty placed the carriers down gently and took the mug in both hands as if it were some ancient relic. “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” he said as he dipped his head to slurp at the too-hot coffee.

“Are you thanking me, or caffeine in general?” Lardo asked.

“Mmrf.”

“I thought so. Well, same deal as always; shoot starts at 8:30 assuming the _talent_ shows up on time, you handle the cats, I handle the camera, we make this calendar a thing if it kills us.” Lardo took a long drag from her own cup of coffee and knelt down to greet the inhabitants of the hard plastic carriers. “Hey, hey, you little idiots. Who's getting adopted today?”

“Oww-wao,” said one of the cats.

Shitty jogged back down to his car to retrieve the rest of the carriers. His car held five carriers, six cats in total, an emergency kit that was mostly pet-safe wipes, and a spare shirt for the inevitable incidents that came from volunteering with animals. It wasn't enough that he was in law school, oh no, he was compelled to add volunteer work onto his already slam-packed schedule. Why bother studying when he could spent a few hours each week scooping shit out of boxes? He reasoned with himself that it would be good practice for his career to come. At least these clients were cute and seemed to appreciate what he was doing.

“ _Oof_ ,” said Shitty as he brought the last carrier up to Lardo's studio. She was established as a oil painter, but had expanded into photography over the last year. It worked out that she was selected for what they'd come to know as This Stupid Calendar Project. There were twelve local athletes, men and women from different sports and different teams as voted by the good citizens of Providence, each one of them posed with a variety of adoptable animals. Miss July, an Olympic level skier (although Shitty couldn't remember if she did the freaky-long-jump thing or the fast-around-flags thing) had been posed with an African Grey parrot. They had both been delightfully obscene. Mister March, on the other hand, had been an obnoxious short stop that was lucky he looked good knelt beside a pit bull. Shitty had never seen Lardo work so fast when it came to that asshole; he was in and out of the studio in twenty minutes.

“He shows up late, touches my paint brushes, and insults my haircut,” she said as they watched him walk down the sidewalk and out of view. “I hope he pulls his groin.”

Shitty remembers throwing a little _malocchio_ at the asshole's back. He'd have to keep track of his season to see if it landed.

“So,” said Shitty as he poured himself another cup of coffee. “Who is our last contestant? Our lucky miss or mister December?”

“You're not going to believe it, but we're taking a dramatic turn in the artistic theme of this project. I've finally been allowed full reign and I'm thinking about a whole new dialogue for this shoot,” said Lardo.

“Wow, really?”

“Fucking, no, Shitty. It's for December, and December is cold so its a hockey player. And, um, cats, because... cats.” She shrugged and went to grab her tablet. “May I introduce to you a Mr. Jack Zimmermann? Three m's, two n's, some sort of Canadian prodigal hockey son.” She flipped the tablet so that Shitty could see the results of a Google image search.

“That's a goddamn jaw, right there,” he said appreciatively.

“Yeah, the only problem is I don't think he knows how to use his face to do, you know, expressions. I think he's stuck on 'serious hockey man,'” she flipped through at least twenty pictures, all of them featuring Zimmermann in either post-hockey mode, pre-hockey mode, or during-hockey mode. “That's not gonna mesh with kittens, Shits. The only photographs he looks happy in involve him scoring goals and I don't think we're gonna duplicate that adrenaline high here in the studio.”

There was a buzz at the door. Lardo checked her watch. “Five minutes ahead of schedule.”

“How politely early,” said Shitty. “That puts him ahead of Lacrosse Bro _and_ Volleyball Asshole.”

“Ugh, do not remind me about Lacrosse Bro,” Lardo unlocked the lobby door and ran a hand through her hair. The assorted cats were getting over their fear of a new location and were beginning to declare their displeasure at being caged up.

“Hush, my babies,” said Shitty. “Think of all the cats Mr. Hockey and you guys are going to get adopted.”

“Assuming Mr. Hockey doesn't just glower at the camera for an hour.”

“Lards,” said Shitty with confidence, “If I can get my Constitutional Law professor to crack a fucking laugh, I can get this guy to smile.”

“I'll put a twenty on that,” said Lardo, and the two shared a quick fist-bump before the door opened.

“'Swawesome,” said Shitty.

“Ah, hello?” the voice reached them a half-second before the speaker did, and Lardo was already stepping forward in her Professional Artist Mode to open the door and greet her guest. Shitty moved to stand with the carriers and look like some kind of Totally Professional Cat Handler. Cat Wrangler? He needed a pith hat or something. He crouched down beside the carriers and soothed the cats, speaking gently to them and wiggling his fingers through the metal mesh of the cage doors. The kittens were intrigued by the scents of this new place and were flinging themselves at their carrier in a desperate escape attempt.

“-hey, Shitty?” Shitty looked up to see Lardo had been talking to him.

“Oh, my bad,” Shitty stood and extended a hand, which Mr. Jack Hockey Zimmermann took with a perfectly balanced handshake. Not too soft, none of that machismo “break your fingers to establish dominance” bullshit. Shitty was briefly worried this man was a politician in disguise. “Everyone just calls me Shitty. Nice to meet you, Mr. Zimmermann.”

“Nice to meet you,” he hesitated before proceeding, “Shitty. And please, Jack is fine.”

“Jack, are you ready to be artistically draped with cats?”

“I'm happy to be a part of this collaborative charity effort. It's great to see so many athletes from such varied sports come together for a good cause,” said Jack.

Shitty and Lardo's gaze flicked towards one another and locked in the silent discussion that all best-bros-forever are capable of. _Are you fucking kidding me_? Lardo's raised eyebrow said.

Shitty took a deep breath. He had a bet to win. “Okay, I'm sure you're used to like, press junkets and such, so there's not much to explain. Are you allergic to cats, by the way?”

“No, not as far as I know,” said Jack. He turned to Lardo and said, “I brought my hockey gear, if you'd like me to get it? It's just down in my car.”

“Please,” said Lardo. Jack turned and headed back down the stairs. As soon as they were certain he was out of hearing range, Shitty and Lardo turned to slap at one another frantically.

“Oh my God, oh my fucking god,” said Shitty. “Canada has perfected its AI and made a goddamn hockey robot to wreck havoc on the world. Did you hear him?”

“Shh, not a word, you can't be that way to a client,” said Lardo as she choked back a laugh. “This is the easiest twenty dollar I'll have ever made.”

Shitty collected himself just in time for Jack to return, a large duffel thrown over his shoulder. Lardo offered him the backroom to change, and he disappeared. Shitty took the time to take the first cat from the carrier. It's name on all the official paperwork was Charlie, but Shitty had come to know him as El Presidente Gordo. The cat was a Maine Coon with long, gray hair and the personality of an overly-affectionate throw pillow. Shitty gave him a quick once over with a brush while Gordo purred and circled around his knees. The cat was an adoption event pro at seven years old, and never strayed far from whoever was currently giving him affection.

There was a rustle as Jack emerged from the back room, and when Shitty turned to look he felt an involuntary gasp escape his mouth. Jack was in his hockey gear, save for a few key pieces. Mainly, his jersey and chest armor.

_Jesus tap-dancing Christ_ , Shitty thought. _Get my ass to a nunnery because I am the embodiment of sin right now._ Jack's build was something out of Lardo's art history books. The man was goddamned _chiseled_ in a way that Shitty thought was only attainable through being carved from granite. Even his hair was perfect after getting slightly disheveled after changing clothes. It wasn't even messed up, it was _mussed_ , and Shitty couldn't explain the difference between the two states except for the fact that mussed left him wanting to get up in Jack's personal space in a way that violated at least three decency laws he had memorized.

“How's this?” said Jack. “You said in the e-mail you're going for a lighthearted, cheesecake theme?”

“Right,” said Lardo, somehow unphased by the maple-infused miracle that stood before them. “As long as you're comfortable?”

“Oh, this is nothing. You should see what _Sports Illustrated_ tries to talk you into, eh?”

_He said 'eh'. That motherfucker. We've been lied to this whole time, the Canadians are weaponized and they know how to use it._

“Shitty! Cat this man up!” commanded Lardo.

“One lump of love, coming up!” Shitty gave Gordo a smooch on the top of his noggin to get him up to full purr before walking him over to Jack. “I've got a series of sweeties for you. Any preference in cat-style?”

“Uh, I'm not really a cat person,” said Jack, “Just as long as I don't get clawed?”

“Clawed? My good sir, this poor beast doesn't have it in him,” said Shitty. To demonstrate, he flipped Gordo over to expose his belly and stuck his face in the floof. Gordo purred louder at the attention and tried to stick his tail in Shitty's ears. When Shitty looked up, he could see that Jack had relaxed slightly, but still no smile. “C'mon, big hockey player afraid of a widdy-kitty? You know, I actually follow this one guy on Instagram, Kent Parson, do you know him? His cat Kit is-”

“Give me the cat,” said Jack his lips drawn into a thin, determined line. He held his hands out and Shitty deposited the cat as if the cat was made of glass instead of mostly compromised of fur and Frisky Bits kibble that got donated to the shelter. Jack hefted the cat to get a feel for its weight before he drew it close to his chest. Shitty stepped out of frame and Jack looked towards Lardo for direction. Lardo offered a few different poses and Jack obliged, shifting Gordo so he was always facing the correct way.

“Shitty, can you grab his helmet for him?” Lardo asked. Shitty skipped across the room and retrieved the helmet. Jack dipped his head down and Shitty put it on for him. “Leave the chin strap undone.”

As if on cue, Gordo reached up and pawed at the dangling strap. Jack gave a soft 'oh!' in surprised when a claw snagged and pulled his head down. The sound of Lardo's camera shutter going crazy echoed in the room. Jack took Gordo's paw in his hand, and removed it from the strap, looking down at the cat, his expression stern but lacking any malice.

“Good job, Gordo,” Shitty took the cat and gave it a scratch behind the ear before returning him to his carrier.

“Let's get to it,” said Lardo.

The rest of the photo shoot, was, if Shitty were to describe it in a single hyphenated phrase, _fuck-mazing_. Jack was game for whatever poses Lardo suggested and was more than patient when it came to being covered in cats. He taunted the kittens with a feather toy for some action shots. The kittens were tiny, screaming bundles of energy as he sat on the floor and let them clamber all over him. There were a series of poses with a cat named Rumpelstiltskin that spent all of his time outside the cage draped over Jack's shoulder armor.

“Is this cat...okay?” asked Jack. Rumpelstiltskin hadn't moved since he was first placed around Jack's perfectly squared shoulders.

“Yeah, that's just kind of how he is. Cats,” Shitty said by way of explanation. He was enjoying himself more than any man covered in cat hair had a right to, but the fact that Jack had yet to crack a smile was driving him insane. Jack reached up to flick the cat's ear just to make sure it twitched.

“I've gotta say, Jacky-boy, you deserve commendation,” said Shitty as he opened up the next carrier.

“Why?” said Jack.

“You've made it this far without making any lame-ass pussy jokes, and I appreciate that.”

That earned Shitty the lift of an eyebrow that was, obviously, plucked by angels every morning. Shitty was taking the fact that he couldn't get this man to smile as a personal insult now. What was wrong with him? Lardo called for a quick coffee break for the model, and time for her to mess with her camera's settings. Jack hovered over her and asked about her set up. As it turned out, when the man wasn't redefining how hockey was played (according to the article Shitty had brought up on his phone), he dabbled in photography. Lardo was delighted to explain her gear and Shitty was pleased to be reminded that all people are multifaceted until Jack bent over to examine something and Shitty nearly lost his mind. He had to look back down to his phone (where he found there were _plenty_ of articles discussing Jack Zimmermann's ass, including but not limited to 3 Twitter accounts).

The shoot was almost done, and still no smile. Time to break out the big guns.

“C'mere, smooch-a,” he said as he drew the next cat out of its carrier. An idea occurred to him and he ran with it. “This here is a very special little dude. His name is Mario Lemew.”

Jack's guard dropped for an instant at the sight of the cat. It was a tuxedo cat with a missing foreleg and bright green eyes. He said something in French under his breath and reached out to take the cat, which melted into his arms.

“Oh my god,” Lardo said in a soft voice. She allowed Jack time to make the cat comfortable in his arms. Mario Lemew allowed Jack to hold him like a baby, cradled in his ridiculously perfect arms as if that was where he was meant to be.

Shitty had never been jealous of a cat before, but there he was.

Mario Lemew was a star. No matter how Lardo posed Jack, the cat seemed to know what to do to maximize the cuteness of the shot. They were a real dream team, and Jack's expression had finally softened to the point where Shitty knew that his enjoyment of the shoot was genuine. Then Mario Lemew booped Jack on the nose with his paw and Shitty was pretty sure that everyone in the world felt how adorable that was. 

Shitty was approaching desperation. Mario Lemew (who was, until very recently, named Oreo but _come on_ ) was the last cat of the shoot. His time frame for winning the bet was running out. Lardo signaled that she had taken enough photos, and Shitty took the cat from Jack. Mario Lemew made a pitiful sound when he was separated from Jack, and Shitty silently agreed with him. Shitty turned to see Jack's gaze follow the cat as Shitty put him away safely in his carrier.

“How long has that cat been up for adoption?” asked Jack.

“Mario? Uh, about a year.”

“A year? Really?” Jack frowned thoughtfully. “That's such a long time for a cat like that.” 

“You gotta find the right home, you know?” Shitty shrugged sadly and then abandoned his last shred of dignity. “Giving them to the wrong person would be a _cat-astrophe_.”

And then, swear to God on a series of Bibles, the sky opened up and a rainbow came through the studio window and Jack Zimmermann chuckled at the pun, a smile spread across his face.

“Could I get your number? I mean, to talk about maybe adopting him?”

“Really? Sure?” Shitty gave Jack his number, and then Lardo called him over to her computer to review some of the best shots featuring Mario Lemew. Jack was forced to head out for his next appointment, but made sure to shake both Lardo's and Shitty's hands before he left.

“Let me know when this is about to go on sale, I'll get on my social media stuff and let my fans know, eh?”

With that, he shouldered his duffel bag and was gone into the wilds.

“Well, well,” said Shitty as he strutted back to Lardo. “Somebody owes me a twenty.”

“You are the dumbest motherfucker I have ever met,” said Lardo. “He gave you his number, and you're excited about winning the stupid bet?”

The realization hit Shitty. “What? No, he wants to talk about the cat!”

“Yeah, over coffee, maybe? I'm not saying, but I'm _saying_.”

“Don't be jealous that I got digits,” said Shitty.

“Yeah, from a guy who laughs at dad jokes. He's all yours. And no one says _digits_ , Shits. God, do you think he makes the same kind of jokes?”

“He has to write them down in his Secret Joke Journal that he keeps hidden to protect his Sports Identity,” said Shitty.

“You are delusional,” Lardo threw the twenty dollar bill at him. “Take your cats and get out of my studio before you damage something.”

“Fine. Me and my cats and my phone that has Jack Zimmermann's phone number in it are leaving. I'll let you know when he invites me back to his hockey mansion up in Canada and offers me a position polishing all of his championship trophies.”

“If that's what the kids are calling it these days,” said Lardo.

Shitty packed up the cats in his car, sat in the driver's seat, and put his head against the steering wheel.

“It's a totally innocuous thing. He earnestly just wants to discuss adopting Mario Lemew, and I'm the best contact for it.” His phone chimed, and a text alert from Jack Zimmerman popped up. Shitty's heart stopped as he unlocked his phone to read the full message.

_Thanks for the work during the photo shoot. Confirming this number for my contacts._

Shitty typed and deleted a few replies before going with, _My punning game is strongest over coffee._ He sent the message before he had a chance to overthink it.

Shitty nearly put his phone in his pocket when he saw that Jack was typing a reply. He turned the a/c on for the cats and waited.

_Sounds purr-fect._

**Author's Note:**

> Cats, cats, I always end up writing about cats. Thanks to Pinkerton for her beta reading and help developing ideas for the story.
> 
> The name "Mario Lemew" is the crowning achievement of my life.


End file.
